


Happy Birthday, Mr President

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daenerys is a reporter, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon is President of the United States, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Politics, that's it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Daenerys was well aware her life was a walking cliché.She was a fresh-faced, political correspondent, eager to make a name for herself. He was an older man, exuding confidence and charm.But she had always been drawn to powerful men—and who was more powerful than the President of the United States?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 33
Kudos: 574





	Happy Birthday, Mr President

They called him the next Kennedy.

He was just as charming, as comfortable sweet talking crusty old congressmen as he was kissing babies. He was as verbose, able to hold a crowd’s attention, his voice low and commanding. It was the sort of voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

He was the sort of man people gravitated towards, the sort of man people listened to, and when he spoke, you could hear a pin drop in the room. At 39, he was four years younger than Kennedy had been when he was sworn into office. With a divorce already under his belt, there were also no _Jackie Kennedys_ or _Marilyn Monroes_ or any other extramarital scandals that could stick to him like wildfire.

President Snow was loved.

He was also infuriatingly, irritatingly, _enthrallingly_ difficult to read.

He wore a smile like a weapon, always cool and calm and collected. Having joined the U.S Army at eighteen, he was no career politician, but an ex-military man, someone who had fought and bled and nearly died for their country.

To everyone else, he was the breath of fresh air who would herald a new age. 

To Daenerys, he was just a man.

Just Jon.

She knew what he looked like when he was tangled up in her sheets, a flash of black curls against white pillows. She knew his hands and his touch and the taste of his mouth. She preferred to think of him that way. It traced a shudder down her spine.

She felt that shudder pass through her now, as his eyes found hers from across the room.

He was speaking to a man she recognised as Petyr Baelish, his Secretary of State, but his gaze was fixed on her. Even from a distance, she burned under it. He had such beautiful grey eyes. _Like storm clouds,_ she’d said once, much to his amusement.

He arched a brow as she watched him, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he tipped his champagne glass to her.

She scowled, tearing her eyes away. She hated that he could do that to her. She hated how her body reacted to him. She plastered a fake smile on her face as she touched Jorah’s arm, her cheeks on fire.

Out of the corner of her eye, she registered Jon’s jaw tense, the slight flare of his nostrils as he dragged his attention back to Mr Baelish.

It was a slight crack in his impenetrable armour.

 _He was jealous_ , she realised, and she hated the thrill she got from that even more.

“Are you having a nice evening, Senator?” Daenerys asked Jorah, her tone clipped and polite.

The older man smiled, little crow’s feet appearing around his eyes.

“I am,” he said kindly.

She loved Jorah. He was an old family friend who she had known since she was a girl, but tonight was a night for professionalism. He had been the other candidate in the presidential race and she had campaigned for him vigorously.

But that was before she knew Jon.

She still remembered the day they met, the fury that had flashed through his eyes like a storm, as he slammed the newspaper down on her desk.

_“I admit, I was liberal with the truth,” she had said coyly, leaning back in her chair._

_She had watched his jaw tick._

_“You’ve printed lies,” he corrected her, “none of that is true and you know it.”_

It became a game of push and pull between them, anger and frustration and a heat they soon realised was desire pulsing under the surface. It had started with lies printed between the pages of a newspaper, and ended with her bent over her desk.

It made her feel guilty now, the way she had bent the truth and occasionally outright lied. She had done what she needed to do to progress in this career, a career that didn’t value the words of women—and words of young, _pretty_ women even less.

She had wanted to help Jorah, the same as he’d always helped her, but Jon Snow had captivated her the way he captivated everyone. He would be a good President, a good leader. He _cared._ He cared about the wealth disparity in their country and the children in poverty and the wars raging overseas.

He cared about _her—_ or at least he seemed to, when his mouth was buried between her thighs.

But he was a politician. As much as he didn’t consider himself one, as much as he was different, the ability to coax and seduce and persuade was in his blood. It was what made her keep him at arm’s length, though he had made it quite clear that he wanted more. She was wary of his silver tongue, of the compliments and praises that dripped from his voice like honey.

She had spent a long time trying to escape from her father and brothers’ shadows. She had spent a long time trying to carve a name for herself, to become a respected correspondent and journalist in her own right, and she worried what they would say if they knew.

 _The President’s Whore,_ they would call her.

She was younger than him—quite a lot younger. She didn’t think it vain to say she was attractive, her hair falling in silver blonde curls and her body slim and tight from years of yoga. She despised the idea of being thought of as a gold digger who slept her way to the top, a pretty young thing to hang off his arm.

 _“You worry too much,”_ he had said once, the grit of his beard sliding over her throat, _“if you were mine—I wouldn’t care what they said.”_

The husky words had made her shudder, but he had that luxury. No-one told him what to do, he _commanded_ respect. She didn’t—and she never would if her life were reduced to his plaything.

As a waiter walked past, she swiped a flute of champagne from his tray. Jorah was speaking to her but she could hardly hear him, her blood rushing and her pulse pounding in her ears. She could still feel the bite of Jon’s eyes on her, and she refused to look.

She took a sip of champagne, grateful for the bubbles as they scorched their way down her throat.

“This is your first correspondents’ dinner, is it not?” Jorah was asking then.

Daenerys dragged her attention back to him and nodded politely.

“I fear it may be my last," he said. 

This caught her interest.

“Why?”

“I am not a young man, Daenerys... and this country looks to young men now. Look at Snow. He won the election by a landslide. It’s time for me to step down.”

Daenerys touched a hand to his arm, a sad smile tugging at her lips.

“You’ll be missed,” she murmured, “besides, President Snow isn't that young.”

She froze when she heard a low chuckle behind her. She knew that sound. She let go of Jorah’s arm like he’d burned her and turned around.

“Miss Targaryen, you wound me,” Jon smirked, one hand on his chest and the other behind his back.

She clutched her champagne glass, her eyes narrowing, as Jon held a hand out to Jorah.

“No hard feelings, Senator?” he teased.

Jorah smiled tightly, taking Jon's hand and shaking it.

“None at all, Mr President,” he said and then turned to Daenerys, “you’ve met, then?”

Jon’s mouth twitched, as though he were in on a secret, finding the whole situation very amusing indeed.

 _You’ve met_ was quite the understatement when the sheets in her shitty apartment still smelled like his cologne, when he had fucked her dozens of times and seen every part of her, inside and out.

He knew it too.

“Once or twice.”

Jorah looked at her, from her too-high heels to her slinky black dress, and his expression was proud when he murmured, “I’ve watched her grow from a little girl to the strong woman she is today. She will be one of the finest names in political journalism.”

Jon’s expression was casual, his dark eyes focused on her.

“I don’t doubt it.”

His tone was clipped and his brow was arched. She knew that look. After a few minutes of polite small talk, Jorah was called over by Senator Baratheon and he slipped away with a curt nod.

_Fuck._

She had been hoping to avoid this, to avoid being alone him. She couldn’t keep giving in, falling into him like this.

She needed to be strong—but there was something about Jon Snow that made her feel very weak.

The jealousy that kicked at her when she noticed Melisandre, the editor of the very paper she worked at, made her feel weaker still. The redhead was staring at him like he was a meal she wanted a bite of and Melisandre was beautiful and sophisticated and much closer to his age.

In the moment, her emotions flaring so hot inside her she couldn’t control them, Daenerys felt very much like a little girl. She’d always had a fierce temper—at work, they’d even started to playfully call her a _dragon—a_ nd she struggled to get herself in check.

“Melisandre’s staring at you,” she said resentfully, unable to help it.

Jon’s brow arched, his eyes flitting over to the woman.

He gave her a polite smile and nod before he dragged his eyes back to Daenerys.

“Are you jealous?”

She narrowed her pale eyes.

“Don’t you have enough little drones to feed your ego?”

He looked pleased by the answer, the edge of his mouth curving into a smile.

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

She took a sip of her champagne. He kept his gaze on her, steady and hot like she was the only person in the room, and _this_ she enjoyed. She liked the powerplay between them, the game of push and pull. She liked trying to guess who would bend, who would break, first.

She didn’t bite.

“You looked rather jealous yourself when I was talking to Jorah.”

“He’s too old for you.”

She quirked a brow at that—with fourteen years between them, so was he.

“You’re no spring chicken either.”

There was an easy tip of his mouth again.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow, in-fact.”

The air bristled between them as she took another sip of champagne. 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t got you a present,” she said lightly, “I had no way of knowing. After-all, I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

She tried to keep her voice and expression even.

Jon’s eyes flickered over her.

“I have been busy.”

She stared at him, her lips parting in disbelief. He was the newly elected President of the United States. She imagined _busy_ was an understatement. He had been away in the United Kingdom, meeting with the Queen and discussing important matters of state, but _still—_ he could have called. She didn’t like to be ignored.

 _You could have called him,_ a little voice nagged in her mind, but she stubbornly pushed it back.

“As have I,” she sniffed, averting her eyes.

She felt, more than heard, his amused exhale.

“Are you annoyed with me?”

She tensed her jaw, refusing to look at him.

“No,” she lied, “I understood the circumstances of this arrangement when it started.”

She could practically _see_ his brow arch.

“Arrangement?” he questioned.

She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat. It _was_ an arrangement, a way to scratch an itch, but it felt like more.

“You don’t owe me anything. This is nothing serious, we’re just having fun.”

The words rang hollow. Her insides screamed and shouted at the wrongness of them.

“That was your decision,” Jon said gently.

 _A decision she made to protect her heart_ , she thought silently.

She sniffed, finally looking at him. She wished she hadn’t. He looked strong and beautiful and everything she had been yearning for.

As she looked at him, all the other politicians and reporters and snakes and asslickers in the room seemed to evaporate.

He looked so handsome, dressed in a sharp grey suit and his hair hung loose in black curls. There was a little silver in it and his beard and it made him look distinguished and mature and like a _man._ She wanted to run her fingers through it. She wanted him to let it grow again. She’d seen pictures of him when he was younger, a carefree teen without the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he’d often wore his curls tied back. She thought it made him look dangerous. She fantasised about tugging at the tie only for him to order her to leave it, wanting it out of his face while she fucked his mouth.

She blushed, wondering when she became so needy.

He must have seen her cheeks blossom into red because his eyes were suddenly darkening.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked lowly.

She rolled her red bottom lip between her teeth. “Nothing.”

He took a step forward, his fingers flexing at his sides. She could tell he wanted to touch her and his hand kind of reached for her before he pulled it back.

Over his shoulder, she noticed his Vice President, Samwell Tarly, making his way toward them.

“Mr Tarly is heading this way.”

Jon sighed in irritation, something flickering through his eyes, before he leaned in.

He wrapped a hand around the crook of her elbow, his touch lighting every nerve ending in her body. His mouth brushed her ear as he spoke. She suppressed a shudder.

“Meet me by the Grand Staircase in ten minutes,” he murmured into her silver curls, “it’s been too long—I need to have you now.”

She did shudder this time, her breath hitching in her throat.

He held her gaze for a beat before he slipped that easy smile back on his face like a mask and turned around.

“Sam,” he greeted warmly, shaking the man’s hand.

Daenerys took a step back, her heart in her throat as she considered his words. 

She shouldn’t meet him.

She _shouldn’t_.

She knew she would.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys had always been drawn to powerful men.

When she was seventeen, she lost her virginity to her best friend’s dad. Now she’s twenty five, she recognises the situation for what it was. She knows that she was manipulated and groomed and it was very, _very_ wrong—but when you’re a teenager, that sort of thing can make you feel important and exciting and desirable. She’d chased the feeling ever since.

In her late teens and early twenties, she had gravitated towards older men, experienced men who could handle her.

That was how she found herself waiting for the President by the beautiful red carpeted staircase.

The expensive chandelier above her dripped with diamonds, bathing her in soft light. Her heart fluttered wildly against her ribcage, excitement crawling like a blanket over her skin. She knew what he would do to her, she knew how good he would make her feel, and her aching core pulsed in anticipation. 

Along the stairway hung portraits of 20th century Presidents. She could feel the bite of Truman and Eisenhower’s eyes on her, the judgemental burn of Nixon and Hoover's.

She rolled her eyes at how ridiculous she was being.

 _A portrait can’t judge you, Dany,_ she reminded herself, _and especially not Nixon’s._

It had been more than ten minutes— _sixteen, not that she was counting_ —and she was almost going to give up when she heard footsteps behind her.

She barely had time to open her mouth before Jon was taking her elbow again and dragging her into an empty room.

Her back hit the door, the lock clicked, and then his mouth was on hers.

He swallowed her gasp, his lips slanting over hers. Her hands flew to his hair, raking through the curls like she’d been dreaming of doing all night. His mouth was firm and soft and wet and _god,_ he could kiss. She had been kissed by so many boys over the years, but he was a _man,_ and he expertly drew out her pleasure.

One of his hands wrapped in her silver curls, gently scraping across her scalp, as the other found her hip. He angled her face for his onslaught, his tongue swiping over her bottom lip. She blossomed for him, opening her mouth and letting his tongue sweep inside.

She moaned, lust snapping at her heels. He tasted like mint and smoke and expensive champagne and she spread her thighs wider. She rolled her hips against his and felt his erection, pressing hard and insistent against his expensive pants. He gave a little growl, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a tug.

Pushing past the lust-filled fog in her mind, she tried to bring herself back to reality.

She pulled away from him, causing him to drop an open mouthed kiss on her neck. He planted hot kisses down the length of her flushed skin.

Her knees buckled, her breath caught, and she blinked through the haze to look at her watch. It was a dainty, gold Cartier, the most expensive thing passed down from her mother.

_8:20._

“We don’t have time,” she gasped out as he caught her earlobe between his teeth and tugged.

He just hummed, his hands and mouth not slowing.

“You have to make a speech in ten minutes,” she reminded him, her toes curling in her heels.

He stilled and touched his forehead to her shoulder, releasing a little groan like he’d forgotten. She dared to let herself believe he’d been too wrapped up in her, too desperate to have her. She shook her head and told herself not to be stupid.

She was expecting him to pull away, giving a slight wince as he readjusted himself.

She was expecting him to leave her with a perfunctory kiss and a muttered promise of _later._

She was _not_ expecting him to gather the satin of her dress and push it up her thighs.

“What are you doing?” she gasped as the fabric pooled around her waist, exposing her lace panties. The fabric was predictably damp and the air felt cool, “we don’t have time…”

He hummed in disagreement and slipped his fingers between her thighs. He tapped her clit through the lace.

“We have time for you to come on my fingers,” he husked, making her gasp, and then he pushed the damp material to the side and slid two fingers up her slit, “and then later, when all this is out of the way, you’re going to come on my cock.”

He sounded almost resentful, uncaring about state dinners and politics and the games he was forced to play. His eyes were wild, like nothing was more important than making her come apart for him.

“Jon,” she whimpered in response, spreading her thighs wider for him. He effectively dissolved the last remnants of her resistance, her blood singing for him.

He strummed his fingers for a few moments, his mouth hovering over hers. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes rolling back slightly, as he found her sensitive clit.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, his lips brushing hers, “I take it you’ve missed me, then?”

She was too far gone, too lost to pleasure, to put up her normal walls. She decided to push right back, to play with him too. It was nice to make him crazy once in a while.

“I’ve been wet since you went away,” she husked, leaning in to press her lips to his again, “don’t you know that by now?”

He groaned thickly, inserting two fingers into her quivering channel.

“I do,” he murmured, his mouth grazing her jaw, “I thought of you. I thought of what was waiting for me back home. You’re so fucking tight, Dany, so fucking wet—this hot, _dripping wet_ cunt…”

Her mouth opened in a desperate sob, his fingers pumping into her while his thumb rubbed circles on her clit.

 _It’s all for you,_ she wanted to say, but the words lodged in her throat.

“Did you touch yourself?” she whispered, lost to desire, feeling completely delirious with it.

A deep sound rumbled from his chest. It was half a laugh, half a moan.

“I did,” he muttered, “I felt like a fucking teenager again.”

He fucked her harder with his fingers, his other hand bunching the material of her dress and holding it at her hip.

“You should’ve called me,” she tipped her head back and she meant for phone sex, but she recognised the words for their unintended depth.

_You should’ve called me._

He stilled for a moment, something unreadable flickering through his eyes, before his fingers resumed their harsh, unrelenting rhythm.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing her clit harder.

Their breaths danced in the gap between them, their mouths brushing hotly, sliding together but not quite connecting.

He alternated between circling her clit and thrusting his fingers inside her, gently crooking them and finding that spongy spot that made her gasp. He flicked her clit, put pressure against it, and she felt her stomach clench against him. Her eyes were hooded, her tongue brushing his mouth when it peeked out to wet her bottom lip, and she could still feel his hard and throbbing erection pressing against her hip.

“I’m gonna come,” she whispered, eyes wide and blown.

He hummed, pressing his lips to hers in a deep kiss.

“That’s it, baby,” he broke away to murmur against her puffy lips, “come for me.”

She did, her body pulling taut like a bow until it snapped. She came all over his hand in a wet gush, coating them down to his wrist, and his hips stuttered with a groan, desperate to be inside her. There were tears in her eyes as she broke apart, her thighs trembling, little broken gasps falling from her lips.

He pulled his hand from between her thighs and licked his fingers clean.

She shuddered, her cunt pulsing in the afterglow. It ached and mournfully clenched around nothing. She felt empty. Still trembling, she pushed her dress down, but frowned when he grabbed her wrist to stop her.

He made a brief tutting sound before he hooked his still-wet fingers in the waistband of her panties and drew them down her legs. Then, he scrunched the wet material in his hand and shoved them in his back pocket.

“Jon!”

He looked at his own Rolex.

“8:27,” he said, almost smugly, “three minutes to spare.”

She rolled her eyes, reaching for her panties again before he moved away and clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Trust me, this is going to be more painful for me than it is for you,” his mouth tipped sinfully, “making a boring speech to even more boring people, when all I want to do is get back to you… to bury myself in that sweet cunt.”

She moaned again, knowing her thighs would be slick and slippery wet while he spoke. It turned her on to think of the stuffy old men around her having no idea, _no idea_ that under her fancy dress, she was bare and aching and waiting to be filled by his cock.

She grabbed him by his lapels and gave him one last kiss on the lips.

“Knock ‘em dead, _Mr President_ ,” she felt the curve of his mouth against hers, “I’ll be waiting.”

She would always be waiting for him.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys sat on the President’s bed, her hands folded in her lap, and tried not to focus on how _crazy_ this was.

She didn’t know what she would have done if someone said she would be here a year ago. Probably laughed in their face and said they were mad.

She felt the ghosts of all those that had come before. Being a political reporter, she had a broad knowledge of the White House and how its occupants lived their lives. She knew it was common for the President and First Lady to have separate bedrooms.

She wondered if Jon would sleep here with his wife. She wondered if he would marry again. He'd said his divorce was messy and painful, but surely, he would. He would probably marry a rich girl from a good family, younger than him as that was clearly his type, and because he wanted children.

She pretended this was something casual, but the idea of it left a sour taste in Daenerys’ mouth.

Her back stiffened when the door opened. Jon was standing in the doorway, closing it behind him with a click.

He looked calm and easy but a little tired and she wanted to put him in bed and let their fingertips touch. There was a little feral look in his eye that hinted he wanted more than that.

She did too. She always did.

She moved over to him, her hands sliding up his broad chest.

“You look tired,” she whispered, one hand finding his face. She felt the grit of his beard under her palm.

He hummed, leaning into her touch.

“Part of the job,” he smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “you looked beautiful tonight. I should have said it before.”

Her mouth twitched into a melancholy smile. There was a lot they should have said before, a lot they should say now. She didn’t understand why it was so _hard._ She knew how she felt about him, that was simple. It was an ache in her chest, a desire in her blood, a shiver across her skin.

She wanted him to be happy and safe, more than she wanted it for herself.

She didn’t know much about love—but it sure as hell sounded like it.

“I missed you when you were gone,” she whispered defeatedly, tired of fighting, “I always miss you.”

His arm came up to wrap around her waist, tugging her to him.

“I missed you too,” he said, voice low and deep, “Dany, can’t you feel this? I hate it when you run from me. Sometimes I think I have you, _finally_ , and then you slip through my fingers again.”

She sighed, her hands sliding down to rest on his chest again.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, “of what everyone will say, of you and the way you make me feel.”

“Don’t be,” he said like it was simple, “I’m too old to play games. I know what I want. Do you?”

He was older than her, more experienced in love and loss and _life_. He’d loved and lost, he knew what he was looking for, and now he’d supposedly found it, it didn’t look like he was letting her go.

He’d waited for her patiently, never pushed her, taking what little she would give him until she was ready for more.

She didn’t know what had changed. Maybe it was the distance, the way she had _ached_ for him when he was gone, but she felt ready now. It would be hard, his position and power would make him a hard man to love, but she had to try.

It made no sense to be apart. 

She leaned up on her tip toes and kissed him, seeing clearly for the first time.

He kissed her back, his mouth opening for her and welcoming her tongue inside. They fought for dominance, a game of push and pull, and she wasted no time in pushing the expensive jacket from his shoulders. His deft fingers slid the straps of her dress down her own shoulders, his large palms covering the skin.

She pushed him backwards, swallowing his grunt of surprise as the backs of his knees hit the bed. He sat down on it, his dark eyes taking a moment to focus as she leaned over him. Her hands were on his thighs and her mouth ghosted over his.

“I didn’t call you either when you were away,” she muttered against his lips because she was _nothing_ if not a feminist, and she could have picked the phone up too, “let me make it up to you.”

She felt the curve of his smile against her lips as she threw his words back at him.

“And how do you intend to do that, Miss?”

A shiver traced down her spine. She liked it when he called her that.

She didn’t answer. She just lowered herself to her knees and watched realisation flicker through his eyes. They darkened, pupils fat and blown to black, as his hands sunk into the mattress behind him. He leaned back slightly, his brow arching in curiosity.

She pursed her lips as she worked on his belt, unbuckling it and pulling it through the loops. The clink as it hit the floor penetrated the thick and heavy silence.

She unbuttoned his pants, held his scorching gaze, and pulled his hard cock out.

His length was long and thick, pre-cum already beading from the tip. Her mouth practically watered as she tugged his pants and boxers down and watched his cock bob free.

He watched her in curiosity as she leaned down and licked his tip, tasting his salty cum. He hissed, his head tipping back as she took him in her mouth.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he grunted.

She hummed around his cock, her hands coming up to play with it. One hand wrapped around his throbbing length, squeezing what couldn’t fit in her mouth, while the nails of her other scraped lightly across his balls. He hissed again, one of his hands leaving the bed so his fingers could curl into her hair. 

He tugged it lightly, guiding her head as her mouth slid up and down his cock. His fingers tightened with the strength of his restraint as his hips bucked gently into her mouth. She could tell he was holding back, that he wanted to fuck her mouth harder, make her take it, make her gag.

She opened her mouth wider, relaxing her throat as she took him all the way in.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned, his hips stuttering slightly as she kept him there and breathed through her nose, his wiry hairs tickling her, “suck me… just like that.”

She hummed, the praise shooting straight between her thighs. She released him with a choked gasp, her throat burning and tears stinging behind her eyes. She could feel saliva on her chin, dripping back onto his thick cock, and she took a breath before she sucked him again.

This time, she didn’t hold back. She didn’t tease. She began to suck him, hard and fast, her head bobbing between his spread thighs. Her pale eyes flickered up to him. She could see the corded muscles of his throat as his head stayed tipped back. She shifted and felt her thighs rub together, slippery slick.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered gruffly, “play with your cunt.”

She moaned, the sound muffled around a mouthful of cock, as her hand snaked between her legs. Her bare slit felt slick and warm, practically dripping, and she rubbed circles on her clit.

She suppressed a gag as his hips bucked, forcing his thick length deeper into her mouth. He grunted and pulled her head off him, his fingers twined into her curls.

His eyes were black as his thumb rubbed over her swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, “so beautiful choking on my cock—but I want to come inside you.”

She nodded eagerly, rising on shaky legs. She shuffled out of her dress, leaving her in a black lace bra. He watched her heatedly as she unclasped it, her tits exposed to the cool air. Her dusky rose nipples pebbled. His tongue peeked out to lick his top lip.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs. She quickly undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, practically ripping them from his body. Then he was as naked as she was, his length still hard and throbbing between her thighs. She lifted her hips and let her dripping slit come in contact with it.

She rode it for a beat, sliding, slippery wet and hot, the engorged head kissing her clit.

Her hands travelled across his chest, taking in his scars. He averted his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He didn’t like to be exposed. He never talked about his time in the army. She wanted to know—she wanted to know everything about him.

Her hands drifted over the scars again, a circular burn mark just below his collarbone, a patch of raised skin on his abdomen.

He averted his eyes again.

“Don’t. You’re beautiful too,” she promised, gently taking his face and turning it so he had to look at her, “strong and brave and _mine._ ”

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his mouth. He placed a gentle kiss on her wrist.

“Yes,” he muttered, “yours.”

With that, she lifted her hips, positioned his cock at her entrance and slid down onto him.

He groaned, his hands flying to her hips. His fingers dug into her flesh as he guided her up and down, helping her to set a steady pace. She moaned, his cock so hard and deep and good inside her. He filled her so well. He was _made_ for her.

She leaned down, her hands resting on the pillows either side of his head as his own hands cupped her face. Her hair fell in a silver curtain around them. He kissed her, his mouth slanting hotly over hers. His tongue flicked out, tangling with hers, mimicking the movement of their hips below.

She broke apart with a heated moan, a desperate sob, as she started to ride him hard and fast. She felt a burn in her thighs as he held her face and muttered against her mouth. He started to pound into her from below and a scream caught in her throat.

“There’s been no-one else,” he husked.

“Mr President,” she teased in a gasp, “are you telling me you were a virgin?”

He rolled his eyes, a laugh bleeding into a moan as her wet channel clenched around him.

“No-one since you,” he corrected, “there was no-one else… there will _be_ no-one else.”

She sobbed, her eyes rolling as he hit the perfect spot.

“No-one else,” she agreed with a moan.

A thick growl rolled from him chest and he flipped them over. Her head hit the feather pillows, her silver curls spilling like moonlight. His cock had slipped from her and he gave it a couple of lazy strokes. His length was glistening with her wetness.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered gruffly, “let me see how wet you are for me.”

She obeyed as though under a spell, her thighs falling open.

His already black eyes darkened further, but instead of sliding inside her again, he dipped down and put his mouth on her.

She arched into the bed, a strangled moan falling from her lips. He had always been a generous lover, but she had already had an orgasm tonight, and this was just plain _ridiculous_. He didn’t seem to think so, as his hot tongue slid up and down her slit.

She rolled her hips against his face, her hand flying down so his fingers could grip his hair. She must have been soaking his beard, already wound so tight. He let out a thick growl, his strong hands spreading her thighs and keeping her open for him.

He didn’t bother teasing. He simply latched his mouth to her clit and sucked hard. She let out a broken cry, her toes curling into the sheets, as he ate messily. The sounds he was making were positively obscene, wet and lewd and loud, and a shudder traced her spine. 

Suddenly, he stiffened his tongue and began to fuck her with it. She tipped her head back, her arms shaking as she propped herself up on her forearms. He took his tongue out of her dripping entrance and used the tip to teasingly circle her clit. Then, he latched his mouth to it and shook his head back and forth. He kept her fused to his mouth as she writhed and begged, one arm slung over her stomach.

With one more heated growl and lick, she shattered. Her orgasm rushed over her, rolling in waves that made her feel like she was breaking apart.

He didn’t wait for her to come back to earth before he shoved his cock back inside her. She cried out, buzzing from oversensitivity, and her eyes rolled back as he pounded her into the mattress and sought his release. His teeth were gritted, strong muscles rippling under his skin, as his cock plunged in and out of her.

She reared up to kiss him, tasting herself tart and tangy on his tongue.

“Come for me,” she begged, falling back into the pillows. She almost called him _Mr President,_ the words burning on the tip of her tongue, and she thought he would probably like it—but it felt too clichéd, “come inside me. I want to feel it.”

He gathered her up, sliding her ankle up to his neck to deepen and intensity the sensation.

“Yeah?” he panted open mouthed against her calf.

She nodded furiously, clenching purposefully around his length.

He groaned as he came, thrusting once and burying himself to the hilt. He kept himself there, grinding against her clit, as he filled her with hot cum. Her thighs shook uncontrollably as he kept filling her, stream after stream coating her womb.

Some of it slipped out onto her thighs, thick and milky white, and she still trembled as he fell back onto the bed next to her.

She snuggled into him, her hair spilling out over his sweat-slicked chest.

“Don’t go anymore, Dany,” he whispered after a beat, his voice thick with emotion.

She felt it in her chest, a dull ache.

“I won't,” she promised.

“Stay.”

She pressed a kiss over his heart.

“Always.”  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys winced as sunlight streamed in through the window.

The drapes were open, blowing in the soft morning breeze, and she blinked groggily to life.

It took her a moment to register the body emanating heat next to her. She was facing his strong back, his heavily muscled shoulders glaring back at her, and she touched the back of her hand to her burning face.

For the first time in years, she was _happy._

She didn’t want to run this time, to slip away in the dark while he slept. It felt good to wake up next to him.

The events of last night came streaming back into her mind. She blushed, thinking what a performance they gave, the noises his guards and aides must have heard. She wondered if the other Presidents were that loud, filling the White House with such sounds of debauchery.

She didn’t care.

She loved him.

She was irrevocably, overwhelmingly, _completely_ in love with him.

It rushed over her, so intense she couldn’t breathe. She let her finger run down his spine before shifting him onto his back and climbing into his lap.

He groaned, his cock stirring to life before he did.

She rolled against it and started to kiss his neck. She smiled in triumph when she felt his hands slowly sliding up her thighs.

He woke with a flutter of his eyelids.

“Give me a minute,” he grunted sleepily, “I’m an old man.”

She laughed, sitting up.

The words reminded her of something, what he had told her last night. His eyes opened fully, dark and cool steel, but they shone with something light.

_Love._

He looked like he loved her.

Her heart fluttered, bursting like sunlight between her ribs, and her eyes slid to the clock on the nightstand.

_5:55am._

“It’s officially the 15th,” she said.

“So it is.”

Her mouth curved into a smile and then she put on her best Marilyn Monroe, breathy voice and husked—

“ _Happy Birthday, Mr President_.”

Jon blinked at her for a moment before he laughed, little wrinkles around his eyes—and she didn’t _care_ if it was cheesy.

It was the best sound she’d ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> It's cheesy, it's tropey - hope you enjoyed! I'm from the UK and know nothing about US Politics, but I mean, it's porn so... allow it?


End file.
